Tag: COVID-19

week three: notes from isolation

Earlier this month, after classes went online and after the last of many events had finally been canceled, in an agonizing process, little-by-slowly over the course of many days, after the dust had settled, I found myself in a queer state of ecstasy—released from the pressure of having to pretend that living a life tethered to a high-stress-low-pay job was meaningful. That first week, I reveled in accomplishing only two important things each day and felt exactly zero pressure to GSD, released from the tyranny of the never-ending to-do list.

Untethered. Free.

I was therefore amazed when one of my dear stage managers texted the group to see how everyone on that staff was doing. My favorite—they’re all my favorite—summed up the situation for the rest quite aptly:

You know how Eeyore builds his little stick house and then five minutes later it falls down?

I am the stick house.

Good Lord.

It had not even occurred to me to check in with my work-study students, whom I truly do care about. Because I was over here living my best life. Baking. Gardening. Reading. No one coming over. It was fantastic. 

That was week one.

Yes, this pandemic is serious—a terrible way to die and a living hell for survivors. And so many more will suffer and die. And I worry for my first favorite student, an anesthesiologist in a New York City hospital.

I understood the gravity of this pandemic in a dissociated way even as I was enjoying every minute in my house, in my garden. And I understood, too, that I am living an extraordinarily privileged life. I am not on the front lines.

We had unusually glorious weather that week, and I had spent hours each day outside.

And then the rain came.

One terrible year in the late 90s we had a hundred straight days of rain and several days of “zero measurable sunlight” — that year my slight older son Eli leaned his head against the sliding glass door and moaned, “REVELS… DIDN’T WORK.”

The theme of that year’s Christmas Revels having been “to drive the dark away.”

One day that spring I couldn’t take it anymore, being inside. I packed up the baby in the stroller with the rain shield and put Eli in his raincoat and boots, and we walked over to Round Table for pizza with the other playgroup families. A big hike for a small boy. In steady, unrelenting, heavy rain.

I haven’t thought about or longed for “dessert pizza” for decades. But after the rain began last week, I did and do.

Because it turns out that a few days of rain during quarantine alone feel exactly like months of rain during a pandemic-free year with small children.

I like to sit in the bay window in the morning, watching the sun come up, sipping my coffee, admiring the previous day’s work in the garden. On the fifth day of rain, I sat with the cats who were holding their usual vigil supervising the hummingbirds in the flowering currant.

It was still early grey when I caught a glimpse of movement far off down the block. A big ole crow was sauntering down the center of the street, slow and easy as you please, right past my house. The cats and I watched, turning our heads in unison to follow this bird’s progress.

Finally, the crow hopped onto the curb and kept walking down the sidewalk, until it was almost out of sight. Then it fluttered away, low in the sky.

I did not see the heron that day.

After breakfast, I put on my rain gear and collected tulips from under the apple trees. I read once that an odd number of flowers in an arrangement is best, so I cut seven. And then I walked the almost-three miles to a big city park near where my friend Barbara lives.

I brought her those cut tulips from the garden, and she brought me spent potted tulips she had bought at the market. She had read how to save them for next year, but has nowhere to plant them. We set our items down on opposite ends of a long picnic table and then each walked around, keeping a wide berth, to collect our goods.

“This is probably not necessary,” she laughed.

And I thought but did not say, “Lady, I am not going to be responsible for your death.”

We circled the park together, still wide apart on the path. It was strange to see so many folks out and about, all keeping their distance.

We said goodbye while I waited for the light at the crosswalk. Then I made my way home a different way, through an old and stately neighborhood, listening to A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, admiring the spring flowers, the rain a gentle drizzle. I took mental notes and a few photos—of an artfully designed trellis, a brick pathway. And turning a corner, I saw a man in his bathrobe collecting his recycling bin from the street. By then it was early afternoon.

He did not say hello. I was not offended. I could see in the grim set of his mouth that he was having an Eeyore’s house sort of day.

In this untethered, isolated quarantine life, it is easy to forget which day it is. So when I got home, I made a note on my calendar to check in with my staff on Mondays.

Let us be gentle with each other.

Six feet, apart or under. You choose.

My ex-husband, Ross, is over sixty and has a suppressed immune system. When the children and I had a conference last week, we came to the obvious conclusion: “He needs to stay in.”

Actually, time feels a little broken right now, so I can’t recall exactly when the conference occurred. In those early days, ten minutes or ten years ago, it was hard to know—Is this it? Do we hunker down now? How about now?

Anyway. I’ve been fetching groceries for both households, as seldom as possible. Ross needed a few last items, so this morning I plotted what I’d hoped would be my final expedition into the wilds of the commercial retail jungle.

The last time I went out, I noticed that people have absolutely no idea what six feet means. Either they are in denial, or they have zero sense of distance, or they don’t like being told what to do. I suspect that here in ‘murica, it’s that last one.

Before I left the house this morning, I fantasized about bringing a pool noodle with me to wave around if folks got too close. If it works for bicycles, maybe it would work for people.

No.

People are idiots.

The co-op was fine, almost empty. And then I drove to Costco, arrived ten minutes before opening. The parking lot was filled and a line stretched around the entire building. And these folks were nowhere near six feet apart.

This is what six feet looks like:

People keep their distance as they wait in line

I drove into and then directly on out of that parking lot.

Some projections suggest we are outpacing Italy in the spread of the virus. “Of course,” one of my pals suggested, “part of this could be the huge delay in getting adequate testing up and running—but that’s not a comfort. Healthcare workers are sounding the alarm across North America.”

Early today, sipping coffee and gazing into the foggy, quiet morning, I assessed my work in the garden. And then my heart skipped a beat when I noticed a great blue heron just beyond my apple trees, in front of the neighbor’s house.

Ever since I first saw a pileated woodpecker one cold November day at our favorite park, I understood, deeply understood, why the ancients—or anyone, for that matter—would be attracted to augury. Magical.

So of course today I hoped that majestic heron would be a good omen in these strange times.

Instead, it was a distressing two hours, out and about. Since my own father was damaged and unavailable, I am highly invested in keeping alive the father of my children, a dear man who cherishes his sons and our honorary daughter. I don’t begrudge him that trip. But, gosh.

Again this afternoon, unwinding at the same window, I saw a doe gallop past, right down the sidewalk, bold as brass. Deer are common in this city, but I never seen them in my own garden. Large, quiet, alien.

I read about the return of dolphins to the canals in Venice, and the reaction is positive, “nature has hit the reset button.” But, again, early days in the US. We are not quarantined or sheltering-in-place. I’m not ready to see wildlife in the city just yet, not even the floppy-awkward escape of the heron when I tried to sneak out for a photo.

The mind moves slowly in the face of enormous change. Yesterday, it was a number, the possible death rate, the millions of us who could succumb to COVID-19. Yesterday, for four blissful hours I was transported to Mongolia, listening to Rough Magic, a sublimely written memoir. Yesterday, I was deeply satisfied. Content.

Something about the crowds and then that doe unnerved me. Today, possible death-by-virus is attached to names. Sure. Any of us could die any time. But it occurred to me that my brother, HIV-positive and still working with the public, could die. My stepmother, who is seventy-nine this year and who does not think she is at risk, could die. Barbara and Ruth and Lissa, all high-risk. Bruce, who used to press his cheek to mine during the passing of the peace at church. Miss Lola, who works two jobs and cares for her husband with dementia and her grandchildren. All so vulnerable. And they could all go down in one fell swoop.

I have never believed in letting fear control me. But I am not stupid. And I didn’t just fight for my health for two years to now croak or cause the death of someone I love.

So. Maybe I’ll bring the pool noodle next time. Or not. Delivery seems a fine option right now.

this pesky pestilence

Years ago my younger son famously shouted to his brother from the other room, “Don’t ask her for help with your math. Mom’s more of a walking dictionary than a calculator.”

And don’t get me started on the religion major jokes around here.

But even I can do simple arithmetic. Way down in this very long post, this guy presents a word problem. I did not triple check to see if he’s legit, but I trust my source. Let’s assume he’s correct.

My county, with 26 confirmed COVID-19 cases yesterday, can expect to have, I’m not kidding, 29,000 cases in 30 days. And 15% of those folks would be about 3,000—and they will need hospitalization.

I don’t know how many beds we have in Pierce County, but the large hospital where I was treated during my own Mortal Peril has something like 380. The other large hospital in town, the one where that same number one son was born, and which he called “my hosisputtal,” has 374 beds.

So 754 beds, plus, let’s say a hundred more in the surrounding area plus 3,000 sick people equals… a lot of death.

I fervently hope the school closures and whatnot will be adequate to flatten that curve.

Now, I don’t love the term “social distancing.” I heard it suggested that we should call it “physical distancing,” because we need to be socially close, especially now. And, shoot, we already have more than enough social distancing in this country. I get that. But my preferred term is “hunkering.”

Although I saw a meme suggesting “saving the realm” or some such. Also good.

As of last Friday, the staff at my university are still expected to report to work, while students and faculty will continue classes virtually. “The message is clear about whose health matters.”

But I also heard on Friday from three decision-makers, in three different departments, that important decisions were, in fact, being made. I just had to be patient.

“You’ll hear something on Monday.”

Sure. Okay. We’ll all keep checking the website.

And, yes, of course I feel for all these people deliberating and having to make hard choices. But the uncertainty is difficult. The slow eking-out of information is difficult.

Years ago I was on some damn committee or other—and very bad at it, I might add—and I heard a lot of talk about mitigation and liability and emergency whatnots. I could be wrong, but my sense is that the university was prepared for a sudden disaster, but not this slowly unfolding apocalypse.

Are any of us ready?

Well, maybe the TP hoarders are. Maybe.

This much change in a short period of time is hard to metabolize. I notice odd thoughts crossing my mind.

I need to turn down the heat.

More hours in the house will mean a higher utility bill. That put me in mind of our homeschool days, when we all wore down vests and fingerless gloves inside, and I kept the thermostat at 62 degrees. Before homeschooling, I kept the temperature low enough that the boys would keep their clothes on, but not so low that their lips turned blue.

What is everyone doing with all those frozen vegetables?

My ex-husband called the other night just as I was falling asleep. He’d been to the grocery store that day, and all the frozen food bins were empty. My honorary daughter had just sent a photo earlier in the day documenting this. My mind drifted to the garden, where I still have some broccoli shoots and kale and chard. The next morning I took an inventory of seeds I’ve bought but not yet planted.

This will be the first springtime in twenty years that I do not have to work like a dog all through April. I’ve lost count of the cancellations, but typically we present eighty-some concerts in the spring semester. We’re currently down to four, with the possibility of one lecture. I’m not hopeful that these will happen.

The garden went all to heck in the last years, and, presumably, depending on what the university decides, I’ll have plenty of time to bring it back.

Yesterday on my run I met a car at an intersection, and the driver waved me across. I waved back to thank her, and just as I moved in front of her car, she began to roll forward. Very close, but I was not in danger.

She rolled down her window to say, “I’m so sorry! I haven’t had coffee yet today!”

“Coffee is important!”

“Have a great day!”

We laughed and went on our way.

It was a poignant moment, that small interaction. A good reminder that we are not alone, even in our empty houses, and that we can still take care of one another, even at a distance of six feet or more.

“a superior spectre more near”

I’ve noticed over the last few decades that when the university administration has potentially upending news, the email goes out at 4:58 on a Friday afternoon, giving the recipients time to process over the weekend. And giving the administration a few days to regroup before responding to the deluge of distress.

Yesterday was Thursday, and we heard at 4pm that spring break will be extended a few days to give the faculty time to regroup as they navigate the new landscape of virtual teaching. (If you’re in that boat, my faculty pals are finding this helpful.) The students will not return after the break next week, but the campus will remain open, and the staff will continue to come to work. We will discuss our tasks with our supervisors.

Of course we saw the writing on the wall, so massaging the timing of the announcement wouldn’t have mitigated the reaction. I suspect that offices have been and will continue to be inundated with calls and email from students and parents. Yikes.

I manage our performance venue on campus, and without students, nearly all our concerts and events are cancelled. The jury is still out, but some of our faculty recitals may happen—in an empty house, livestreamed.

(When I mentioned this possibility to my violinist friend, she asked, “In an empty house? Isn’t that just called practicing?” Which begs certain questions about the nature and value of live performance, but those are for another day.)

Ours is a student-run facility, and without the students to work the lights, recording, cameras, stage moves, etc., it’s unclear to me how we will pull that off. Half-assedly, I presume.

And then there’s the harpsichord we moved to the chapel last week for the now-cancelled Bach recital. That operation, moving our delicate old charmer, requires at least four people. The thought of the instrument staying there, abandoned, put me in mind of Station Eleven, where homes are overgrown with foliage and the corpses of the residents lie rotting. An association which might not be as ill-placed or extreme as we’d prefer.

In the early days, before livestreaming and when I had only a few work-study students, they would run out of hours before the last concerts of the year. I worked more concerts than I can count running up and down the stairs between the booth and the stage door, doing All The Things.

I’m too old for that shit now.

I can imagine filling forty hours with work for perhaps one or two weeks—answering email, tidying, adjusting the calendars. But after that….

So last night I refreshed my memory about the legal ramifications of the terms “furlough” and “layoff,” in an effort to understand exactly how fucked I am. Fairly fucked. Along with the dining services employees and so many, many others.

A few weeks ago, at one of our last concerts before the cancellations, we were waiting for the curtain. My students were chatting in the sound booth, and my favorite kiddo—they’re all my favorites—had a midterm assignment to create a vaccine for COVID-19.

“My solution kills the virus!” he told us, gleefully. Then he giggled and added, “Unfortunately, it would also kill the carrier.”

They were ahead of the curve, these science students. No one else in my world at that time was seriously discussing the ramifications of the coming pandemic.

That’s when I remembered the last outbreak scare, the one that didn’t happen ten or so years ago—bird flu? H1N1? SARS? I forget which plague.

But I absolutely remember with crystal clarity a conversation I had with our former director of Human Resources. We were in the grocery store, late at night, and I was on my way home from an event. We were standing in the aisle by the bulk foods. She assured me that they had protocol in place, but at the time, I wasn’t concerned so much about illness as quarantine and the cancellation of events.

Earlier that day I’d heard a Seattle health official interviewed on NPR, and when he’d talked to his wife about the possibility of quarantine and mentioned that they’d have to be prepared to homeschool their young children for up to three weeks, he said, “She looked at me like I had three heads.” We were homeschooling at the time, and that made me chuckle. But only kind of.

(Yesterday, K-12 schools were cancelled for six weeks.)

I loved that director of HR. I’d known her forever—we met previous to my campus life, in another context. And that sunny autumn day when I walked across campus to pick up my oldest son’s tuition remission forms at her office, another day seared in my memory, she understood the enormity of that moment. When I told her my mission, she gasped, “I remember when he was born!” That day had also involved forms, of course.

There in the grocery aisle, I remember her face shifting when she realized my fear—no events, no work, no paycheck. And it took some little while, explaining, before she understood. Watching her face, that is when I realized we lived in different worlds.

Earlier this week, when the Seattle Archdiocese cancelled everything through the end of the month, Mass, choir rehearsals, classes, meetings—that’s when everything shifted from surreal to real. Funny, how the mind processes major disruption. Then it was just a matter of time, waiting for the university’s official announcements.

Yesterday a friend and I made a lighting strike trip to a tiny Seattle yarn shop. She spent hundreds of dollars on supplies so she wouldn’t loser her mind during quarantine. We are both astonished at the run on toilet paper. Coffee seems a more sensible item to hoard.

On the whole, I am ready to lay low. I’m good at it, after nearly two years of health crisis recovery that prevented me from engaging with the world at large. I can handle staying home. I even have an emergency fund, thanks to the refinance of my house after last year’s plumbing disaster. I’ll be able to pay the mortgage for a while. And eat.

Of course I’m not thrilled about the probability of being stuck home alone. For many of us living alone, this is one of the more daunting aspects of extreme disruption and the collapse of normalcy. Even with Amazon Prime to meet my entertainment and provisions needs, one need not be a chamber to be haunted.

And I’m concerned about my older friends and family, about my friends with young children at home. Concerned, generally.

Now that the university has finally made the call, the reality is quietly settling in. I will so miss my students, the very best part of my job. My favorites.